


Guardian

by Godtiss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Guardian Angel, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 16:33:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Godtiss/pseuds/Godtiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is Sherlock's guardian angel. But who's John's?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guardian

John Watson’s track record is flawless.

He’s come close to breaking it in the past, caught up in the grip of those intense emotions that mortals are so prone to. A dying soldier many centuries ago had claimed to have seen his wings, but his death had been seconds away and John had just smiled reassuringly and held the man until his heart stuttered and stopped.

So far, that had been the closest John had come to exposing himself as an angel. He considers it a bit of an accomplishment, considering how long he’s been around.

And then the turn of a new decade, and John is in Afghanistan following behind the tide of war and doing what he can to keep as many mortals alive as possible. Until one day, he gets too close to the crashing waves and the deafening sound and suddenly there’s a pain in his shoulder that he can’t ignore.  
  
He comes painfully close to exposing himself then, too. Concentrating on keeping his wings hidden from human sight while simultaneously blocking out the pain of a bullet through his shoulder. He manages it though, and is bandaged and shipped back to London.  
  
He doesn’t consider changing his face and reenlisting. Not yet, at least. A change of scenery isn’t an unwelcome sight, as far as he’s concerned.  
  
And then Sherlock swirls into the picture, a force of nature unto himself, and John finds himself pleasantly distracted from wars and disease and death, except for what Sherlock shows him at their crime scenes. He pretends to limp just as a precaution, to draw attention from his shoulder and, more importantly, his wings. But Sherlock calls him out on it within seconds of meeting him, makes John forget entirely within a day why he’d been limping at all.  
  
John shoots a cabbie in cold blood. He’d been in wars, he’d shot hundreds of mortals, killed thousands throughout his existence. But this is different, and John isn’t sure how he feels about it until he sees Sherlock, smiling and laughing and so vibrantly alive that it almost hurts John to look at him. And John smiles back.  
  
He doesn’t consider changing his face. He’s doing good here, helping Sherlock solve murders and potentially stop more. He makes tea and watches telly and starts a blog and for the first time in as long as he can remember, John actually lives.  
  
Moriarty makes his presence known a few months later. John doesn’t know what Moriarty is until he wakes in a darkened swimming pool, the man standing over him with a wicked grin and John is quick to correct himself. Jim Moriarty is no man – oily blackness seeps beneath his skin, flames crackle behind his eyes.  
  
“Sherlock Holmes is a lucky man. I’d love an angel for a pet,” the demon taunts, and shoves John into Sherlock’s line of sight.  
  
They make it out unscathed, but John is shaken. Moriarty complicates everything. John hasn’t had to deal with a demon in nearly two centuries. And Moriarty is clever – too clever, it turns out.  
  
John pulls up outside St. Bart’s well over a year later and Sherlock is there, on the roof, and John can see everything. He can see the vastness of the web Moriarty had created, he can see Sherlock caught trapped and struggling. But Sherlock is mortal and Moriarty is not and John is torn because he doesn’t want this. He’s done playing the game.  
  
Sherlock drops his phone. His body begins to pitch forward.  
  
To hell with track records. John’s wings flare, bright and brilliant in the morning sunlight and then he’s airborne, launching upwards to meet Sherlock mid-fall except suddenly the sky brightens and two angels face one another with mirrored expressions of surprise.  
  
And Sherlock laughs, his deep baritone echoing through the streets as they both alight on the pavement below, ignoring the startled, awed looks of their audience. John laughs too, because he has to, because Sherlock wasn’t going to die and _isn’t dead_ and he’s an angel just like John.  
  
When they’re back at their flat, mortal memories modified and none the wiser, they both spread their wings and John can’t help the laughter then that bubbles up from his chest and past his lips. Sherlock smirks, ash-grey wings nearly brushing the opposite walls of the room.  
  
“I didn’t know,” they both admit.  
  
“Why did you jump?” John isn’t condemning – just curious.  
  
“Moriarty would’ve killed you - I thought you were mortal. Why did you come after me?”  
  
John smiles, a crooked thing and there’s irony dancing in his eyes when he answers, “I was going to save you.”


End file.
